Of Useless Sports

Based on Oscar Wilde’s concept that “no artist desires to prove anything” and that “the artist can express everything”, I decided to make a tiny and useless experiment (but Mr Wilde also says that “all art is quite useless”). So, extracted like so many teeth sporting disgusting cavities from a previous anti-narrative exercise, here comes the following poem:

round dry full name
red and small seeds
burned into the name
bones at the root
of the road

to drink this water
in the night heart
yellow ashes of stars
long feathers black fire
biting the sun

we gave the name
to moon and stars
blood water smoke trees
kill all that sleep
in the sands

hands knees necks bellies
tongues of dry leaves
this is our will
thus it must be
fingernails biting meat

Yeah, useless and absolutely pointless, in the most arid spirit of postmodernism.

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